


Some Sunny Day

by gingersoldier



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Sad AU, i think??, preemptive apology guys I have no idea what possessed me to do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersoldier/pseuds/gingersoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight on the causeway could have gone much, much worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Sunny Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :) (This is my first fic in the history of ever so any comments or suggestions would be super duper awesome.)  
> And thanks to my friend Lydia for the idea! ^_^
> 
> Have a great day! 
> 
> (Here's a link to the song: "We'll Meet Again" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsM_VmN6ytk )

“ _Get out of the way!  Get out of the w-!_ ”

 

Steve skidded to a halt at the curb, stomach turning with dread.

He had heard the shot echo across the street, and he’d heard Nat crying out – more from surprise than pain.  She’d collapsed, ducking out of sight behind one of the abandoned cars that lined the road.  Alive, thank god.

But he’d lost sight of the Winter Soldier, and that’s what scared him the most.  

He whirled round, eyes narrowed, mind flying at a thousand miles per hour as he scanned the vehicles and debris scattered across the causeway.  Natasha had cover, but so did the assassin – he could be anywhere.  It had only taken him one shot to debilitate her.  Another shot, and…

If he blinked, he would have missed it.  The glint of light reflecting off of polished metal.  A dark-clad figure leaping gracefully onto the roof of a van and carefully aiming his gun at the car behind which Nat was crouched.

His stomach twisted into a knot and before he could so much as process what he was doing, he was barreling towards the Winter Soldier, who glanced to the side, spotting him out of the corner of his eye.  As Steve leapt onto the hood, the assassin threw the gun into his right hand and drew back his metal arm, bringing it down hard toward Steve’s head, but he threw his shield up in just enough time for the impact to ring like a gong on the vibranium.  

It barely made a difference, because almost as soon as the Soldier’s fist made contact, he grabbed the edge in his powerful left hand, threw it to the side, and kicked Steve square in the chest so hard he flew backwards straight off the car, landing on his back on the pavement.  When he looked back up, the assassin was sitting on the roof of the van, rifle aimed directly at Steve’s face.  He quickly folded himself into a ball behind the cover of his shield before the spray of gunfire could reach him.

Everything took place in the blink of an eye.  If he’d been a fraction of a second too late, he would have been a dead man.

When the Winter Soldier realized the bullets had no effect, he jumped backward, taking cover behind the van.  Steve rolled forward, shield still in hand, trying to formulate a plan, but everything was moving so fast.

The only person who had ever been a real match for him was Red Skull, but even then it was just a question of who could punch harder, and the answer was obviously Schmidt.  Here – now – he was genuinely afraid.  He had never before encountered an enemy that matched this one’s grace or speed,  mentally and physically.

Not to mention he was a perfect shot, even better than–… even better than the best sniper he’d known.

But he’d let his mind wander.  The assassin took the opportunity of temporary concealment to whip out a smaller, semi-automatic rifle from the holster on his back and fire three more shots at Steve through the windows of the car.  But thankfully he managed to hold up his shield just in time.  Honestly, where was he getting all these guns?

Steve was unarmed, save his shield.  If this was going to be anywhere close to a fair fight, he needed to get rid of the assassin’s weapons.

The shots stopped and he peered through the broken glass of the windows to see the Winter Soldier was busy reloading the gun.  Steve, relying solely on instinct now, jumped up and rolled over the top of the car, throwing his legs out from underneath him and kicking the weapon out of the Soldier’s hands.  He landed on his feet with his shield still up, and thank goodness he did, he thought to himself, because his kick had had little effect.  The assassin spun round seamlessly, pulling out yet another goddamned handgun and firing an additional three rounds at Steve, who held his shield high and ran a circle around his attacker in the hope that it would both disorient him and cause him to waste precious ammo.

The Winter Soldier threw the gun to the ground beside him in frustration and Steve charged, clocking him in the side of the head.  It barely did a thing and the Soldier retaliated by grabbing the edge of Steve’s shield, lifting it out of the way, and delivering a painful blow to the gut.  He tried to strike back, but the assassin took the shield in both hands and twisted it in a circle like a hatch door, still attached to Steve’s arm.  Blood running cold, he tried to keep a hold of it and jumped, doing a somersault in mid air along with the shield, but his balance was hopelessly lost.  With dread, he felt his grip on the shield weaken and his arm slip out of the leather handle.  

He landed unsteadily on his feet and tried to throw another punch, but the assassin held up the shield, blocking his attack and causing Steve to stumble back in pain, shaking his bruised hand, when he spotted it.  Sitting in the street, not five feet away from him.

The discarded handgun.

It had only fired three shots.  It must have nearly a full load of ammo.  He looked cautiously back up at the Winter Soldier.  He had obviously followed Steve’s gaze and knew exactly what he was thinking.  The Soldier tentatively retreated a few steps, holding the shield aloft, his icy, hate-filled eyes for the first time displaying the smallest glint of fear.  Steve slowly stood up, his gaze locked with the assassin’s.  The whole scene, the expression on his enemy’s face, it all gave him the oddest sense of déjà vu.  

The Soldier was hesitating, muscles tensed, breath quick.  Why was he hesitating?

Steve eyed the handgun again.  It was so close.

The Soldier looked down at the shield, brow furrowed.

Steve thought for a moment.  The Soldier was out of weapons.  Firearms, anyway.  If he would only drop the shield…

The assassin gave his head a violent shake and he narrowed his eyes at Steve, lifting the shield in the air behind him, preparing to throw.

Now was his chance.

The disc-like shield came flying directly at his face and he ducked to the ground, letting it embed itself in a van across the street with a loud crack.  In the heartbeat or so that his enemy was unarmed, Steve rolled, swept up the gun in his left hand, and fired two shots into the Soldier’s chest.

He screamed and stumbled back, collapsing onto the pavement.

Steve tossed the gun to the side and put his hand on the ground to support himself, catching his breath.  He hated the bitterness of killing more than anything.  But anyone who threatened his friends…

If there was one thing the war had taught him, it was that the people who threatened his friends… well…  They didn’t deserve any less.

He rose shakily to his feet, turning to retrieve his shield from the van across the road.  Hydra backup would be here any second now and as far as he knew, Nat was still behind that car.  He was about to walk away when he heard the sound of metal scraping on cement, and he looked back at the Soldier.

He was still alive, coughing, gasping for breath, uselessly trying to pull himself to safety with his left arm, clutching the open bullet wounds in his chest with his right.  How his heart survived was some sort of miracle.  Steve must have punctured a lung.

Good, he thought to himself.  That’s the man who singlehandedly murdered innocent people.  Who killed Fury, who most likely killed Howard, who tried to kill Natasha.  The monster.  No less that he deserves.

 

...

 

No.

He wasn’t going to let them - Hydra of all people - turn him cold.

He shut his eyes and sighed contritely, scooping the handgun off the street and walking slowly back to the wheezing body.  Steve stood over the trembling figure whose now-weak fingers danced twitchily over his own wounds as if willing them in vain to heal.  His mop of dark hair was spread out around his head and his polished metal arm scraped against the pavement with a sickening screech as he tried to push himself away from the threat.  Of course, to no effect.

This was always the hardest part.

Steve cocked the gun and aimed it at his enemy’s head, turning away.  The Soldier scrambled, desperately as a frightened animal, kicking his legs weakly and letting out a series of short, pitiful noises of distress as he looked up the barrel of the weapon at his former assailant.

Steve looked back.

There was something so familiar about those blue eyes.  Something so strange about the emotion in them.  Almost pleading.

He paused, then shook his head and lowered his gun, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“Who are you?” he muttered.  

 

The assassin had lost too much blood and oxygen to exert much more effort trying to escape but he continued anyway, flailing his left arm feebly and gasping for breath.  He was clearly incapacitated, so Steve felt confident enough to kneel down, gun still in hand, and carefully pry off the Winter Soldier’s mask.

His heart stopped.

 

“ _Bucky?_ ”

 

The Winter Soldier’s eyes widened at the name Steve couldn’t even believe left his mouth, but he still continued to struggle.

Steve’s jaw dropped and he shook his head.

No.  This wasn’t real.  This couldn’t be real.

Bucky mirrored his actions, shaking his head with apparent denial.  But the effort made him take in another painful, dramatically insufficient breath, coughing up blood from his collapsed lung onto his own unshaven face.  The liquid ran into his long, unkempt hair and down his front, which was already soaked a dark wine red from the bullet wounds.

A bowling ball dropped in Steve’s stomach.  

What did they do to him?

What did he do to him?

 

“It’s me, it’s me,” he tossed the gun away, trying to sound comforting but failing as his words poured out a series of distressed whispers.  He fell to his knees and gently cradled Bucky’s head in his hands above the hard asphalt.  “It’s Steve. Remember?”

 

Bucky continued to stare at him, gasping asthmatically through pale blue lips.

 

“ _I don’t know you._ ”

 

“It’s your pal, Steve.” he insisted, trying to smile, his voice cracking and tears welling up in his eyes.

 

How was this happening?  Why was this happening?  How had he survived?  It must have been Zola’s experiments.  It must have started in that goddamn factory.  They must have found him after he fell.

After Steve let him fall.

 

“Oh my god.” he whispered hopelessly, waving his hands with panic over the open wounds in his friend’s chest as if expecting they would somehow know what to do, how to fix this.  He had easily lost about a quart.  And with all the internal bleeding, there was no way…

 

“ _Steve_ ,”

 

His friend stared up at him with confusion and distress, tears making his blue eyes shine, running down into his short beard where they mixed with the bright red product of his own coughing.  Again, he closed his eyes and gave a quiet cry of pain through gritted teeth.

 

“We can get help.” Steve said, knowing full well there wasn’t enough time.  He didn’t want to believe it.  This was his fault.  This was all his fault.

 

Suddenly, the look in Bucky’s wide, glassy eyes turned from terror and disorientation to shock and disbelief as something seemed to click in his mind, and with great effort, he lifted his right hand up, grabbing weakly at Steve’s jacket and pulling him close.

 

“ _Steve_.”

 

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve replied with a forced, crooked smile.

 

“ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ ” he wheezed, almost inaudible.

 

Steve didn’t know what to say.  He just held his best friend’s head to his chest as he wiped the silent tears from his own eyes.  This was all his fault.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky breathed.  “ _I don’t remember.  I don’t remember..._ ”

 

“What do you not remember?”

 

He coughed again.  By now, the blood had soaked through Steve’s jacket sleeves, but he honestly couldn’t care less.

 

“Anything.” he said, growing visibly agitated.  “S- Steve, I don’t remember anything...”

 

“Do you…” Steve interrupted, quickly wiping his nose on his sleeve.  “Do you remember the mission in France?”

 

Bucky calmed down a bit, his coughing milder.  “Mission…”

 

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled, smiling at the memory.  “You- You, Gabe, and Frenchy had stolen Dum Dum’s hat the day before.  Took bets on how long it would take him to come out of his tent without it.  You were always doing that, remember?  Joking around?”

 

Bucky flashed the faintest of smiles and nodded weakly.

 

Steve continued, voice shaking.  “And remember that night, it was so warm for wintertime, and we all had to walk back to camp ‘cause the Jeeps tires had been shot, and we built a fire.” He paused, trying to collect himself.  “And we sang songs.  Your- Your favorite was the last one.”

 

He squinted in concentration at a spot in the middle distance just above Steve’s right shoulder.  “Were you a good singer?”

 

Steve chuckled sadly.  “God, no.” he said with a shake of his head.  “I was awful.”

 

“Can you s-” Another violent cough.  His voice was so weak, it was a miracle he could still talk at all.  “Can you sing it anyway?”

 

Steve nodded, biting his lip and hugging Bucky’s head to his chest again, as if that would keep him from death’s grip.  Finally, he started to sing, breathily and out of tune, but he knew that that was the last thing that mattered right now.

 

“ _We'll meet again,_

_Don't know where,_

_Don't know when,_

_But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day._

_Keep smiling through,_

_Just like you always do,_

_Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away_.”

 

Bucky smiled, eyelids fluttering.

 

“Hey, hey,” Steve said urgently, giving his arm a gentle squeeze and willing away the fear that was spreading through him like a poison.  “Stay with me, okay?  I just got you back, pal.  You can’t leave already.”

 

This was a dream.  It had to be.  He was about to wake up back at camp with the Commandos, the sun just rising over the Alps and casting a light on the snow that made it look as if he was standing in a river of gold.  Bucky would be there too, smiling, happy.  And Peggy.  Everyone.

Or maybe he would wake up in Brooklyn, before Pearl Harbor, before Bucky enlisted, before Project Rebirth, before any of this ever happened.  This was another one of his fevers.  He would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, the city lights casting a blurred, shining square on the floor of the dark apartment.  Bucky would rush in from the other room to help and weak, tiny Steve would hug the big jerk and he would never let go.  Bucky was fine.  Bucky was just asleep down the hall.  This was all a bad dream.  It had to be.

It had to be.

Suddenly his friend gave another cough, eyes snapping open.  His fingers curled tightly around Steve’s jacket as he shuddered and tried desperately to take in air.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” he managed between violently shaking gasps.  “ _Steve, I can’t breathe, Steve,_ ”

 

Steve’s heart raced.  No.  No.  There must be something he could do.  There must be.

 

“ _Steve, Steve,_ ”

  
No.

 

“Bucky,” he said, holding him closer in no effort to hide his panic.  “It’s okay, I’m here.  Don’t-”

 

Bucky’s eyes were wide as dinner plates.  His whole body trembled and he latched onto his best friend, still struggling desperately for air.

 

“I’m right here.  It’s okay.  You’re okay, Buck.” his voice cracked.

 

Bucky gave one cough, one last shudder.  His body went limp, hand falling from Steve’s bloodstained jacket, and his blue, teary eyes drifted into emptiness.

 

No.

 

No.

 

Steve put his hands on his shoulders and shook him gently, but nothing happened.

 

“Bucky, hey.  You’re okay.  You’re okay.  Come back.”

 

He was just asleep.

 

“Please.”

 

Steve shook his head frantically, hugging his best friend close and shaking with sobs that burned his lungs like wildfire.

Bucky was asleep in the next room.

This was a dream.

It had to be.

_It had to be…_

 


End file.
